Page 50 of The Virtues of Christmas
Somebody gently shook Patience’s shoulder. “Woman, ye canna be sleeping in my very office. We’ll stop at the bakery and get some tarts, for I’m certain you’ve eaten every crumpet in Bloomsbury.”
The wordcrumpethad Patience opening her eyes. “I adore a fresh lemon tart.”
Dougal MacHugh knelt beside the desk, his emerald eyes full of concern—for her?
“I’ll buy ye a dozen. Why were ye cryin’, Patience?”
Patience. He avoided using her given name, but she liked the way he said it.
“How did you know I was crying?” For she had been, and dissembling would simply make her look foolish. More foolish. She sat back, knowing her sleeve had left a crease on her cheek, and her hair needed tidying.
She’d taken a break to read the morning paper and seen an engagement announced. Not just any engagement, but the one that ten years ago should have been hers.
A callused male thumb stroked her cheek. “I see the evidence of your tears. If somebody needs a beating, I’ll gladly do the honors.” In his way, Dougal MacHugh claimed a certain rough charm.
“He’s a viscount now. He’d see you put out of business and laugh about it with his friends.”
Mr. MacHugh brushed an errant lock of hair back from Patience’s brow. “I liked teaching little children their letters, sums, and history. I’d like teaching a viscount his manners more. I take it your papa wasn’t in a position to hold the bastard accountable.”
Bastardwas such a vulgar,appropriateword. “Papa was the reason the viscount went on his way, even though the engagement had been all but announced.”
This was ancient, entirely irrelevant history. The Windhams knew all the details and had stood by Patience through it all, though the rest of her acquaintances had dropped her flat. Used goods. A jilt. A jade. Patience was no stranger to vulgar words, though she had denied herself use of them regarding the viscount.
“Was there a disagreement, lass?”
Small children had likely confessed all of their troubles to Dougal MacHugh when he put questions to them so gently.
“There was a predictable melodrama,” Patience said, “though I was the only one not given the script. Papa, like many younger sons, lived beyond his means. He had a falling out with his older brother, and the debts began to pile up. Papa realized that he couldn’t afford more than one Season for me, but for that one Season, he spared no expense.”
Mr. MacHugh turned and perched with his back to the desk drawers. “And when the viscount realized you were not an heiress, not even in possession of good settlements or on good terms with the head of your family, away he went. He broke his word, and he broke your heart.”
“Well put.” The first mattered more than the second, in hindsight.
“Your uncle was no help?”
“My uncle was determined to teach my father a lesson, my father was intent on the same exercise where the baron was concerned, the title has since gone to a cousin I’ve never met. I think Scottish families must be different.”
“Scottish families are poorer, for the most part. We can’t afford such meanness to one another.”
Meanness, another appropriate word. “The viscount proposed to me. Not down on bended knee, but sitting in the pergola. He proposed, and I accepted. I know now why a young man is left alone to propose to his lady.”
“Because men can’t bear to have witnesses when they’re rejected?”
“That too, but also so they don’t have witnesses when their proposal is accepted. He later claimed I’d misconstrued his words, I’d read into friendship a regard that hadn’t been tendered.”
Mr. MacHugh rose straight to his full height. “Patience Friendly, if ever a woman had a fine command of the language, and the many subtleties thereof, you are that woman. You misconstrued nothing, and the viscount was never your friend.”
He tugged Patience to her feet, and because she’d been sitting so long—surely that was the reason—she wobbled and clutched at the nearest stable object.
Her arms found their way around Mr. MacHugh’s waist, and—later was time enough to wonder why—his enfolded her.
“Nobody has ever said that to me.” She gave him her weight, and he obliged with a genuine embrace. “My parents questioned me endlessly. What had he said? Was I sure? Could I have misheard him? What words did he use? It’s as if they wanted him to be right and me to be a witless ninny.”
“You were right, they were wrong. You are not a witless ninny. Your parents’ first responsibility is to protect their young—I have this on the best authority—and they failed you.”
A queer feeling came over Patience, part sadness, because her parents had failed her spectacularly, but also part relief. No witnesses could verify the harm done to her by a faithless young man, and thus doubt had assailed her, even from within.
Hadshe misheard?Wasshe exaggerating?Didshe misconstrue words intended to convey only general esteem?
